Misericordia
by Jedi Sapphire
Summary: Sequel to "De Profundis". Dean helps Sam recover from his ordeal. Spoilers through to the end of S5. Please pay attention to the story warnings.


**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

**Author's Note:** I promised you this, didn't I? *g*

Many thanks to Cheryl for all the help.

**Warnings:** This is the sequel to _De Profundis_, so some of the same warnings apply. There are mentions of the non-fatal crucifixion of a character. This is far happier than that, less violent, less dark, less intense, and so on. That said, there are references to the events of that story and it picks up right where _De Profundis _leaves off, so if the idea of crucifixion used as a plot element upsets or offends you, please don't read this. Also, there's a little minor (show-level) swearing.

Spoilers through to the end of S5.

**Summary:** Dean helps Sam recover from his ordeal.

* * *

**Misericordia**

Dean's in a state of complete and utter panic by the time he and Kathy get into that basement, and the sight that meets his eyes does absolutely nothing to calm him down. Sam – _his_ Sammy, his baby brother – is tied to a cross, hanging by his wrists, and –

No. There is no _and_. There's Sammy, half-conscious, and three men standing around him. Roy and Walt – and Dean doesn't know why he didn't kill them years ago, but he's about to remedy that oversight immediately and with extreme prejudice – are laughing at Sammy, and the third guy, who must be this Professor Hart he's heard so much about, is taking notes.

Sam's _dying_ – because he _is_, Dean can sense it; his body is giving up – and the miserable son of a bitch is taking _notes _about it.

Dean thinks these are extenuating circumstances for manslaughter. He doesn't really care whether they are or not; he's going to commit manslaughter anyway. Still. It's the principle of the thing.

Sam whimpers then, a pitiful little moan. Dean doesn't think he even realizes he's made a noise. Either that, or he's past caring. That tells him how out of it his brother is and sets every nerve-ending on fire. He doesn't listen to what Kathy's saying about fair warning – and, really, it's not like she's saying it very forcefully, either. She says it once, and then, like she feels she's done her duty and is now entitled to watch the show, she steps back and lets Dean at the men.

Dean would like to make them suffer. He really, _really _would. What's the use of being one of Alastair's best students if he can't use that knowledge to punish bastards who hurt his Sammy?

But he doesn't have time. He has to get Sam off that _thing_, get him down and clean him up and feed him and make sure he's OK. Then he can resurrect Roy and Walt and Hart – _especially _Hart, freaking son of a bitch taking freaking _notes _about Sam's pain – and kill them slowly.

Sam's breathing is getting raspy, and that spurs Dean on into a murderous fury.

* * *

All-encompassing as it seems while he's fighting his way past the three men, Dean's anger vanishes completely the moment he gets his hands on Sam. Sam's… hurt. His physical injuries aren't as bad as they looked at first, but…

Dean bites his lip, standing on tiptoe to put his fingers on Sam's jaw. He knows Sam's alive, of course – Sam's still breathing, little hitching half-sobs that make Dean wish he hadn't let Roy and Walt and Hart die so easily – but it still makes him breathe a little easier when he feels the thrum of life under his fingertips. Just a little, because Sam's pulse is uneven and weak.

But it's there and he's alive, and Dean's willing to take his breaks where he can get them.

Dean tries to reach for the ropes holding Sam's hands, but they're too high and he might cut Sam if he tries to get at them like this. He doesn't want to move, though – he can't bear to leave Sam even for as long as it'll take to drag over the stool that's in the corner. He looks around for Kathy, but she's gone – probably went up to call off the search now that Sam's been found.

Dean swallows. "I'll be right back, Sammy," he tells his brother. He doesn't think Sam understands, but he needs to reassure _himself_. "Going to get you down, just hold on a minute."

He drags the stool over. It's just the right height to support Sam's feet. It's probably what the sons of bitches used to get Sam up there.

He steps up onto it, careful to spread his weight around so it doesn't unbalance Sam.

Sam's head drops to his shoulder, and Dean feels his heart threaten to beat out of his chest.

"That's right," he whispers, voice shaking, because_ Sammy_. "You just let me take care of you."

* * *

Kathy's willing to drive them, and though Dean would normally never let anyone other than himself or Sam get behind the wheel of the Impala, he's got something more important to do. Kathy drives, and Dean sits in the back with Sam's head in his lap, running his fingers through the tangles of Sam's hair.

When they pull up outside the clinic, it takes some work to get Sam out of the car. He's holding on to consciousness by a thread, he doesn't have the strength even to sit up, and he doesn't want anyone other than Dean touching him.

Finally Dean manages it, and they're in the exam room. Dean's sitting on the cot, Sam, still wrapped in the blanket they found in that basement, curled up against him.

The freakout happens when the doctor comes.

"No!" Sam sobs when she reaches for his blanket, pushing himself closer to Dean. "No, please. Dean!"

The imploring voice breaks Dean's heart, but, much as he hates it, Sam's going to have to let the doctor examine him.

"Hey," he says gently. "They're gone, Sammy. Roy and Walt and Hart. This is Dr. Trevor, she's just going to look at you so she can fix you up. Come, on, kiddo." Sam shakes his head. "She's just going to check you over, Sammy. She's a doctor. Nothing bad about that, is there?"

"Please," Sam whispers into Dean's shirt.

Dean looks at the doctor helplessly.

"Kathy told me what happened," she says, and her eyes are sympathetic. "I can give you a spare set of scrubs for him, if you think it'll help. They shouldn't chafe too much. I'll still need to look at him, though."

The scrubs do help a little. Sam still doesn't like the exam, still won't look at the doctor, and is still snuggled up to Dean like he thinks Dean's going to go away if he moves. But he lets her look at him, and if he's hiding his face in Dean's shoulder the entire time, Dean thinks he's entitled.

"Well?" Dean asks anxiously when Dr. Trevor finally steps back.

"Well… Frankly, I think he was very lucky. It could have been far worse. He doesn't seem to have torn any muscles in his shoulders or wrists and there's no dislocation. There's a lot of swelling, which is to be expected, and he won't be able to use his arms much for a few days, but I don't foresee any long-term complications."

Dean pats Sam's head.

"And the rest of it?"

"Flesh wounds. Some of them are infected, but antibiotics should clear it up. I'll give you a prescription, and I'll have one of the nurses come in to clean and disinfect the lacerations on his legs. I don't think we can stitch the wounds now, but they should heal without scarring if we bandage them."

Sam whimpers.

"I know," Dean soothes. "No offence, doctor, but I think I'll clean him up myself."

"Are you sure? If infection sets in…"

"I've done it before, I know the drill."

She shrugs. Dean can tell she's not entirely convinced, but Sam's a grown man so it's not like she can do anything about it if he'd rather have his big brother fix him than an actual doctor with an MD. "If you say so. I'm going to put him on an IV for the dehydration. Once it's in, I'll leave you alone for an hour or so."

"And then I can take him home?"

"I'd prefer to have him here overnight for observation, but you can take him home if he wants to go. You'll have to keep an eye on him for the next day or two and bring him back if he starts running a fever. Don't leave town till he's fully healed, the stress of travelling will be bad for him. Keep him on fluids for now and ease him into solids slowly." Dean nods. "One more thing… It might be as well to have him talk to someone. I can recommend a counsellor."

* * *

Sam, drugged to the gills, sleeps curled up against Dean all night.

Dean doesn't sleep. He stays up stroking Sam's head, whispering to him whenever he gets restless.

Dean thinks he may never sleep again. He's afraid to shut his eyes, even now, because he knows that as soon as he does his head's going to be full of Sam tied to that cross, Sam's bitten-off, agonized little moans as Dean lifted him down, and, even worse, those miserable hours when he had no idea where Sam was and if he was OK.

He'd been halfway to Sioux Falls when he'd called Harding to let him know he was coming and Harding had let slip that Walt had sent him the bestiaries. He'd found them in a yard sale going for next to nothing, bought them, and sent them to Harding in case any hunters had a use for them.

Dean can't believe Harding fell for that obvious lie. Honestly, when has Walt _voluntarily _done anything to help the hunting community? The son of a bitch came after Sam – probably goaded into it by Zachariah, now that Dean thinks about it – and _that's _his contribution to society. He almost permanently took Sam out of the picture. Who would have shoved Lucifer back in the Cage _then_?

He didn't have time to light into Harding then, so he settled for expressing serious doubts about the legitimacy of his parents' marriage before turning the Impala around and heading right back to Sam.

Sam stirs.

Dean runs a hand through his hair and he settles down.

He's lying on his stomach – Dean thinks the position is easier on his shoulders, though Sam didn't say so – with one arm flung out across Dean's lap. Dean suspects it's Sam's way of making sure he doesn't leave.

That thought just makes him feel even angrier.

* * *

Dean knows he should talk to Sam about it. He intends to, he really does, but he just… can't find the words. How do you ask your brother if he's OK after being crucified by a bunch of murderous lunatics?

Sam, meanwhile, has gone all bright and cheerful. He's not bitching about needing Dean's help for simple things. He's eating what Dean gives him without a fuss. Whenever Dean looks at him, he's smiling so hard his cheeks must ache.

It hurts, in ways Dean didn't expect, that Sam feels the need to put on this act with him.

"Come on, Sam," Dean says, when it gets to be too much. "You don't have to pretend."

Sam manages to look surprised. The little bitch always _was _a good actor. "What are you talking about, Dean?"

"I mean _you_, going on like nothing's happened, like it doesn't bother you that you had to let me feed you soup for lunch. I know you. I can tell when you're hurting and hiding it and –"

Sam shakes his head. "I'm fine, Dean. Really."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I _am_," Sam insists, sitting up and reaching for a book. The pull on his muscles makes him wince and slump back onto his pillows. "Could you…?"

Wordlessly, Dean hands Sam the book.

"Thanks," Sam says, smiling at him again, and Dean wishes Professor Freaking Hart were here so he'd have someone to strangle.

* * *

"Kathy wants to see you," Dean tells Sam late that evening. "OK if I ask her to swing by tomorrow?"

"Who's Kathy?"

Dean stares. Sam normally remembers the name of every single person they've ever met. He remembers the names of all the girls Dean hit on better than Dean does.

"Kathleen Hudak. Deputy Sheriff Hudak, remember?"

"From Minnesota? That place with the Benders?" Dean nods. "What's she doing here?"

"She moved after we left. Said she couldn't stay there knowing what happened to her brother. She works here now. She was the one…"

"She was with you when you got me out," Sam says, and Dean's surprised he registered that much.

"Yeah."

Something flickers in Sam's eyes, there and gone so quickly Dean almost – _almost _– thinks he must have imagined it. But he knows his Sammy, and he knows Sam's enthusiastic nod is faker than any of the credit cards in Dean's wallet, and he's just about had it with Sam pretending everything's OK when it's not.

"Don't," is all he says. "And if you say, 'Don't what?' I'll…" Dean makes a face. "Can't even threaten to hurt you now. Just… Come _on_, Sammy. You don't need a game face with _me_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam says, and Dean has to give him credit for keeping his voice steady when Dean can tell he's inches away from a meltdown.

* * *

Kathy's visit is short, and clearly miserable for Sam.

He's improved to the point of sitting on the couch now, though he still can't shake her hand or do much more than smile. He thanks Kathy for her help, and lets her pat his knee through his sweats and tell him how glad she is that he's recovered.

Dean walks her out.

"He needs to talk to someone," Kathy says as soon as they're outside. "Dr. Trevor told me she recommended –"

"She did, but do you think that's going to work? Sammy won't even talk to _me _about what happened. No way he'll talk to a stranger."

"He probably won't talk to a stranger," Kathy agrees. "And I don't blame him. See if you can get him to talk to you."

Dean wants to roll his eyes, because, honestly, she thinks he doesn't know that? But she means well, so he just nods, walks her to her car, and promises to go by her office with Sam before they leave town.

* * *

"You've got Kathy thinking I don't know how to take care of you," Dean says lightly.

Sam's smile tightens into something painfully bright and impossibly heartbreaking. "Maybe she heard you calling me a bitch."

Dean forces a laugh. "If she's worked up over _that_, it won't be long before she calls CPS on me."

"I'm not a kid."

"You're _my_ kid."

The words are out without Dean really thinking about them – he must be feeling more emotional than he realizes, with all the stress of the last few days.

Sam stares at him in shock for a moment. Then, with a soft sob, he's reaching for Dean.

Dean reacts quickly, gathering Sam into his arms and settling them both down on the couch.

"I was afraid I was going to lose you," he whispers, because if he wants confessions from Sam, maybe he needs to set an example. "Sam, when I went in there and saw you…" The words bring back the feelings, and for a moment Dean's back in that basement, terror threatening to choke him at the sight of his baby brother hanging by his wrists from a cross.

"I didn't want you to see me," Sam whispers. "I didn't want you to _find_ me, not like that – not after what they did to me."

"They hurt you."

"They _broke _me." Sam sounds like he's confessing to something shameful. "They broke me, and I was… I couldn't… I couldn't _do _anything. I should've been stronger."

"Don't be stupid." Dean holds Sam closer, _needs _to hear Sam's breathing. "You stayed alive long enough for me to find. That's all that matters."

"But they –"

"It doesn't matter what they did."

"You _saw _me like that."

"And you think I think any less of you because of it? Come on, Sammy. Tell me you know me better than that."

Sam mumbles something into Dean's shoulder. Dean can't figure out what he's saying, but he sounds calmer, and for now that's enough.

* * *

Sam doesn't snuggle up to Dean that night, and although Dean secretly mourns the end of Sam's clinginess, he recognizes it for the good sign it is. It means Sam's at least feeling secure enough to know Dean doesn't think he's weak, Dean isn't waiting for the first chance to get rid of him, and Sam doesn't need physical contact to make sure Dean doesn't disappear overnight.

But just because _Sam's_ feeling more secure, that doesn't mean _Dean _is. He almost lost his baby brother. So if he waits until said baby brother is asleep and then sits on the edge of his bed and lays a hand lightly on his back, he'd like to see who's going to judge him for it.

* * *

Dean shaves Sam the next day.

Sam, the little idiot, thought he was going to shave _himself_. And Dean knows that, under normal circumstances, Sam can shave – he taught the kid, after all – but if Sam thinks he's going to hold a razor, even a safety razor, to his chin when his hands are so unsteady he can't even write, he has another think coming.

So Dean puts Sam in a chair and lathers him up, and Sam bitches and complains and makes speeches about how he can do it himself. It's _perfect_, because it's the closest to genuine normalcy that Dean's seen on his brother all week.

The smile Dean gets when they're done dispels some of his good mood, because it's another tight, uncomfortable smile.

But it's the first time he's seen that expression on Sam's face all day. That's an improvement.

Dean wipes the lather off Sam's chin. "There you go, princess. All pretty."

Sam bitchfaces, and it would be a little pathetic how Dean's mood lifts again with the expression if he and Sam were other people. But they're _not _other people, so it's normal and Dean's just… relieved.

* * *

Sam's watching Dean clean his legs. The smaller cuts have practically closed up now, and it's only the deeper ones, and the gunshot wounds, that need to be flushed out and bandaged again.

"Will they scar?" Sam asks in a small voice.

Dean looks up in some surprise. Sam's not usually worried about scarring – it would be difficult, in their line of work. And because he threw himself into the Cage bodily, there was no physical do-over when Cas brought him back.

Sam still has all his scars. The faded white lines that are relics of hunts with their dad when they were kids, the puckered skin on his shoulder where Bela shot him, jagged marks down his arms where the ghouls bled him… And the one thing Dean can't _bear _to look at, even now, the pale knot of tissue in the small of his back, where Jake severed his spinal cord.

"Maybe a little," Dean says. "One or two of the deep ones. But not much." Sam bites his lip, and Dean adds lightly, "Hey, chicks dig scars."

Sam makes a face. "That's not it. I just… I don't want…" He shakes his head. "I don't want to _remember_."

Dean's throat burns, and he really wants to give the kid a hug, but something tells him that isn't what Sam needs right now. Instead, he lays a hand on Sam's knee and murmurs, "They're just scars, Sam. They don't have to be different from any of the other ones you have."

* * *

When the meltdown comes, Dean isn't prepared for it.

He's sorting through their equipment while Sam sleeps, seeing what they need to stock up on. Guns and ammo are piled on his bed, and other things – salt canisters, rosaries, flasks of holy water – on the tiny bedside table.

Sam wakes up when Dean's halfway through. Dean helps him up, makes sure he's steady enough to brush his teeth, and walks him back when he's done.

Sam collapses to the edge of his bed, running a hand through his hair.

"Need any help?" he asks.

Dean shrugs. He doesn't, but Sam probably needs to be doing something. "Sort those out," he suggests, waving a hand at the jumble of things on the bedside table.

Sam nods and goes for the equipment, but as soon as he picks up a string of beads, he stiffens.

"Sammy?" Dean asks, worried at the sudden stillness. "What – oh." He realizes what Sam's holding, and God, how could he have been so _stupid_? What's _wrong _with him? "Hey, it's OK. It's just a crucifix, Sammy. Here, give it to me."

"_Dean._"

Sam's voice is the same soft, desperate, _pleading _tone of the little kid who wanted his big brother to talk him through his nightmares, and Dean responds the same way he did when Sam was four. He opens his arms and lets his baby brother throw himself into them.

"They crucified me."

It's the first time they've said the word out loud, and somehow Dean isn't surprised that Sam was the one to do it. The kid's always been brave.

"I know."

"They said I was evil and they _crucified _me."

And Sam's voice breaks. Sam sounds like he's scared _he's _going to break, too, but that'll never happen. Not while Dean's there to hold him together.

* * *

Later, much later, Dean's sitting on Sam's bed, listening to his brother's even breathing.

Sam's head is resting in the crook of his elbow, and although his arm is numb, Dean has no intention of moving. He'd put up with a lot more than pins and needles for the sight of Sam peacefully asleep.

Dean can't resist patting Sam's head. Sam stirs, but a light touch to his shoulder is enough to make him settle down again.

"Sleep, kiddo," Dean murmurs. "I'm here now."

* * *

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